Insight Into the Mind of Steve Randle
by Blue-Vial
Summary: A view from Steve's POV of his day. Everything that poor abused greaser goes through with work and his family. Lots of language and mentions of abuse.


**Allo! This is a story/anecdote I came up with oh sometime around 3 in the morning. Which, unfortunately, was the time I decided to write it. Let me just say, rereading it, it sucked. So this is the much better charged up revamped version. Steve's one 'o my favorites and he's so dramatic. Enjoy! **

As a long time honed reflex, I jerked awake. Of all things, that reflex was something that had proved useful time and time again. Every morning, my body would force me awake and I would hold my breath while listening to every little sound that came from outside my door. Soda had caught me doing that a few times at his place and made sure to tease me about it. The only thing I could hear was a muffled snoring that recreated the scene when I came in last night perfectly. That snoring was the only reason I would sleep here these days.

Placing my sock-covered feet on the hardwood floor, I stepped lightly and breathed quietly. The last thing I ever wanted was for that bastard to wake up and start hollerin' at me like he did whenever he got the chance. Everytime I looked at that pathetic sack of meat I wished he'd never wake up. Then I consider that death might be a welcome release for a son of a bitch like him. Let him rot in his own filth.

As I tiptoed towards the bathroom, I glanced half-hopefully towards mom's room. Empty and clean…just like she left it. Two days ago mom packed up and got out. I don't blame her. Mom used to be a great lady with a great heart but eventually the drunk got to her. Every day he'd scream at her and hit her until she just stopped speaking. I haven't heard her say a word for a month and a half now. At night I would lie in bed and listen to her crying in the room across from mine. The asshole would be passed out on the coffee table like always and she would bury her head into her pillow and sob. One night I went into her room and she looked up at me with tears streaming down her face. In that one moment, I felt rage for my father like never before. That night I held her in my arms, silently, until she fell asleep. That was the last time I heard her say something; 'I'm sorry, Steve. You deserve better than this.' I swallowed hard and blinked to keep from bawling. 'I love you, Steve.' Holding her tightly, my scratchy throat responded, 'I love you, too, mom."

She was the one who deserved better than this hell hole. I'm glad she left to find something better…

Wiping the precursors of tears from my face, I continued to the bathroom, not looking towards my _father_. The water from the shower head dripped down my back and chest mercifully. For some reason, the shower always felt like the safest place. Just standing in a quiet closed space made me feel secure. Doing my best to wash the remaining grease off my hands, I finished up and turned the pouring water off. Sighing, I reached towards the laundry hamper and pulled out a lavender towel.

I stared into the mirror, into my own dark hate-tinted eyes. This is what years of neglect and abuse have created. Some 17-year old hood that hates the world and everyone in it, spare a few good people. If it weren't for those few good people, who knows what I'd be. Probably dead.

Putting on my pants, something caught my eye. In the mirror, I no longer resembled some no-good hood, but I suddenly had the undeniable vulnerable look that I last saw in my mother's face. Staring into the mirror, I felt tears pushing behind my eyes. Shaking my head to get them away, I prayed the image would leave. Opening my eyes, I still stared at my mother's likeness upon me, tears and all. Gritting my teeth and crying, I threw my fist into the reflective glass. Loud and epic, the jagged pieces of glass fell past my head and onto the floor. My right hand was bloodied and raw with little bits of glass protruding from the deep red pool. Nevertheless, I placed it on the porcelin across from my left and supported my body weight. Sobs choked out from my throat as tears mixed with free flowing blood in the once-white sink.

After a few seconds, I regain my composure and turn on the sink. I clean off as much blood as I can, but there's nothing I can do about the mirror, now. Throwing on my shirt, I start off on a search for my shoes. Everything is normal. Nothing happened. A short overweight man blocks my exit from the bathroom. Even from here, I can smell the stench of whiskey.

"What the FUCK are you doing, you piece of shit?"

Glaring maliciously, I try to push past him. He grabbed my collar,

"You little fuck, you think you own this god damned place. Well let me tell you something, you're fucking _nothing._ Nothing to nobody. If you died, no one would give a god damned FUCK."

"Go to hell, you son of a bitch."

He threw a punch and if it weren't for the limited moving space, I coulda dodged it. Instead, it landed on my cheek. Rage burned in my chest as I slammed the door and headed to my car. He stuck his ugly fat head out and screamed at me.

"Don't even bother coming back you fucking meat sack!"

Turning the keys in the ignition, I watched a whiskey bottle smash into a million little pieces on my hood. Even from the drivers' seat, I could see the noticible dent in the hood. My fists squeezed the steering wheel until my right one started bleeding again. Growling, I started towards work.


End file.
